Sam's already seated at the back of the library, long legs stretched out under the desk, arms crossed like he’s trying to take up less space than he does. His flannel is too big, hair a little messy, and his eyes track your every move even if he doesn’t say anything at first.

When you plop into the chair beside him — too loud, too much, just how you are — he blinks slowly, like he didn’t expect you to actually sit there.

“You talk a lot,” he says after a beat, not unkindly. His voice is quieter than you thought it’d be. Thoughtful. Steady. He fidgets with a pen cap, glancing over. “But… it’s not a bad thing. Kinda makes this place feel less like a prison.”